


angle of repose

by querencias



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Gen, Jihoon POV but is this a necessary tag, haenggarae let's go, inaccurate portrayal of literally everything, no beta we die like carats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24751813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/querencias/pseuds/querencias
Summary: Sometimes, it feels like he would give everything.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	angle of repose

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for my friend Lita, for whom this work was promised over a year ago, and never delivered (because of who I am as a person, unfortunately). Nothing in here is accurate and I don't claim for it to be, who amongst us can claim to know who idols really are? This is just, hopefully, a character study that is built off the dust that Seventeen has given us and anecdotes from fans. I wrote a section a day, for 360 days, and cannot bring myself to post the full 360 parts - this piece is built off the remnants of that monstrous work, cobbled together to resemble an (entirely self-imagined) autobiography, of sorts. This does not reflect any of them in any way whatsoever. I apologise for liberties taken.

_The angle of repose, or critical angle of repose, of a granular material is the steepest angle of descent or dip relative to the horizontal plane to which a material can be piled without slumping. At this angle, the material on the slope face is on the verge of sliding._

0°

Everything has changed, Jihoon realises, albeit suddenly, on a warm summer night, watching Soonyoung catch and shake the flies that dare bother them within his clenched fists to “disorient the flies” while drinking his frankly tepid tea, cupped gingerly between his hands. 

He looks around, and wonders when he gained this family, this group of twelve boys with a leader who doesn’t look old enough to have all this weight heaped onto his shoulders. His leader, who was always the youngest in his family and coddled his entire life, now thrown into the idol life and automatically assuming a role, purely based on age, to care for twelve boys and ensuring that they are working as a team. As if age brings leadership, or the ability to rouse spirits. 

Sometimes, Jihoon wants to tell the boys to fall into line when they are roundhousing too much, as he watches the creases in Seungcheol’s forehead increase, but when Seungcheol breaks out into his indulging smile, tender and content, he pauses and swallows down the reprimands, sharp and bitter tasting and well-meaning, because he’d give anything to keep the smile on Seungcheol’s face there.

Sometimes, it feels like he would give everything.

25°

“Jihoon-ah!” 

The loud call startles him from his work-induced stupor and he silently curses each individual musical motif that he can currently see superimposed onto each other in front of his eyes. He must have lost track of time - a quick glance at the clock at his table pins it solidly at sixteen hours, which explains why Soonyoung is-

“Jihoon-ah!” the call escalates in volume as Soonyoung crashes through the door, with Seungkwan following closely behind, nearly tripping over the threshold. 

Saved, Jihoon thinks wryly, pressing the sleep button on the computer as he stretches up to face his members, or did I just doom myself?

Soonyoung grabs his hand and hauls his sluggish body out of the room with Seungkwan ushering him from behind, closing the door with a loud, joyous slam as he rushes to follow. 

“Jihoon hyung! Let’s go for some supper,” Seungkwan sings as they burst out into the street, where Jeonghan stands, blond locks haloed under the streetlight, vaguely resembling the angelic vision that the company had for him back when they debuted. 

Jihoon notes a muted surprised look on Jeonghan’s face, as if he can’t quite believe that the two noisiest members were able to drag him out of his studio when countless others have failed. But it is covered up swiftly with a beatific smile aimed in their direction, eyes crinkled and nose scrunched, a perfect imitation of how they were taught how to maximise a facsimile of happiness in their class for facial expressions. This close, and having it thrown his way almost carelessly, Jihoon can sympathise with Jeonghan’s fans. They’ve had good trainers, and Jeonghan has always been one of their best students.

Still, Jihoon can’t hide the swelling of his heart, full from his members’ concerns and on the brink of overflowing onto the fond smile on his face. These are his people, the ones he has chosen to let into his heart and his life, even if they started out just as coworkers. These are his brothers. Jeonghan has rarely employed their lessons when interacting with them off-camera, simply because there has never been a need to hide who he was from his family. 

Jeonghan waits for Jihoon to join him by his side before cautiously bumping his arm against Jihoon’s. They’re well-versed in the art of saying everything while saying nothing at the same time, and Jihoon ducks his head down to hide his smile. Jeonghan has always read him better than most other members, and the open invitation for Jihoon to do- well, whatever he wants, is enough to warm his heart even on this freezing winter night. 

Jihoon allows his fingers to slip just past his sweater, exposing them to the chill for just a split second, and reaches up to grasp Jeonghan’s sweater, tugging on the arms just the way he remembers himself doing to his own mother, when he was younger. The memory sours his nose just a little, and he blinks furiously. There was something in his eye, he would convince himself later, but at that moment, he wanted to drown in the familiarity of those motions. Of warmth provided by family, both chosen and by blood, that transcends distance and time. Before Seoul, he would have allowed himself to let go. But he’s Seoul’s Woozi now, Seventeen’s genius composer, and he cannot be the first to crack, and so he sniffles and complains about the cold, wheedling Seungkwan into giving him his jacket because Seungkwan’s predictable, indignant reaction would chase the rest of the tears away. 

He’s thankful for Seungkwan. He’s thankful for them all, for Jeonghan who provides support quietly, for Soonyoung who’s always in the dance studio, minimal light on to hide his presence from the managers, for Chan, who worries so much about his hyungs but covers it up by talking about himself, for Jun, who is the worst introvert he’s ever known but has to brag about himself and his looks for a princely image, even though all he ever wants to do is play on his phone and lie in bed in oversized clothes all day. They’re all feeding parts of themselves to fuel their dreams, but one day there will be nothing left to give, and all they’ll have left is empty husks of themselves and a dream that is too heavy, too steeped in tears and sweat and want, to fly. 

Jihoon is determined that they’ll never reach that stage. 

“Hey,” a voice startles him from his thoughts, chiding and yet kind, “leave the work for the studio, alright?” 

It’s Soonyoung, who has dropped behind to match Jihoon’s steps, trampling with an almost childlike glee over the snow, starkly at odds with his words, serious and displaying an amount of emotional sensitivity that Jihoon would have never expected when he first met Soonyoung.

Soonyoung is all fire and wind and life, quick hands, quick feet and quick mind, bundled up into a package that displays none of that. But spend more than a few minutes with him, just talking, and his talent will inevitably leak out, hands moving unconsciously, choreographing even when he speaks. He was self conscious about his eyes when he first came in, they were not the tried and tested double-lidded and doe-like formula that most of the public attenuated to an idol. Instead, they’re fierce like a tiger, Tiger Eyes, they called them, a name that he deserves a thousand times over, for Soonyoung turns his insecurities into confidence. And for that, Jihoon thinks that he admires him. 

He huffs a short, sarcastic exhalation. “That’s rich,” he snorts disbelievingly, “coming from a guy who hasn’t stopped doing footwork since we started walking.” Because even when Soonyoung disguises it with over energetic bounces, Jihoon knows what he’s seeing. It’s basic footwork, steps that have been reiterated over and over and over again, so ingrained into their brains and their bodies and their muscles that they can probably do--have probably done, them in their sleep.

Soonyoung splutters indignantly, swinging his head violently around to look for members to help him but Jeonghan only smiles, contentedly swinging Jihoon’s hand in his grasp and Seungkwan who was ten steps ahead and yelling about- snowflakes, Jihoon thinks, and oh-

It’s snowing. Just barely, the first few flakes drifting by, so small that they can’t even make out the shapes or patterns of the individual flakes, dots that pepper their hair and down jackets. Jihoon knows that there will be a veritable flurry of snow that will make opening their practice room door hard later today, but for now he is content to see his members’ unconcealed delight at the little crystals drifting down from the heavens, crowning their heads in drops that sparkle under the streetlamps. 

Seungkwan laughs, bright and fierce and joyful, and it sparks off a series of giggles from all of them, until they are gasping for air, clutching at each other for support. Maybe they really needed that, a temporary outpouring of emotions disguised as happiness. They haven’t had many occasions to laugh recently, with the CEO yet again delaying their debut. Four delays, it’s been 5 months, _when when when when-_

They’re under no disillusion that life after debut will be easier compared to their trainee days. But it is still a symbolism of safety for them, of recognition in their skills, that they have trained for days and weeks and months and years for something, something more than the half life that they lead now. They’re stuck in limbo, trying to better themselves while chasing after a dream that seems to be running faster than them as their insecurities and self-doubt loom menacingly behind them.

Jihoon clutches as Jeonghan’s arm, and Jeonghan’s hand comes up to firmly grasp at his, a strong pillar of support for a boy who sorely needs it. 

“Gather yourselves, let’s go! I’m starving,” Jeonghan announces, and Jihoon gives him an appreciative squeeze on his arm. He gathers up a smile, and tamps down the melancholy. Desperately stuffs it into a mental drawer of forbidden emotions - full to the brim, ever turbulent, and locks it up. One day it will overflow. But it will not be today.

79°

The road to debut is long. 

It’s too long. Their NU’EST hyungs, they’ve had a modicum of success overseas, and then Pledis made the decision to send them to Japan- expanding, they called it, expanding into a new market, new opportunities- they’ve expanded into a black hole. Whatever name NU’EST have made for themselves in the Korean market rapidly vanished, the Korean market moving far too fast and too efficiently for Pledis to keep up. They barely have enough money for toiletries, let alone have rest days, and it’s wearing down on all of them. 

Their newest member, Minghao joins, and it’s bittersweet. One more advantage, one more step into the Chinese market, one more mouth to feed. It’s hard to celebrate when they don’t even know if they have a future together. 

He’s bright-eyed, skinny, far too skinny, and always has a ready smile for his fellow trainees, and Jihoon sees that Seo Myungho, from Anshan! is trying so hard to learn Korean quickly, his words thick with the chinese accent that Junhui is unable to get rid of as well, and he adds another brother in his heart, another person that he has to take care of, another person he knows that he would hold on to, through the storms of the Korean media industry. 

He hears Myungho- Minghao, he corrects himself, tongue tripping over the foreign syllables, one night, accented Korean drifting by the practice room cubicle that has never been fixed and whose door refuses to stay shut, and he stops outside the cubicle. Minghao, ming-ha-woo, he rehearses quickly, and knocks on the door before entering quietly.

Minghao is squatting in the corner, brow furrowed in concentration and finger firmly jabbed in the middle of the sentence he’s attempting, and Jihoon’s heart pangs just for a second. There’s no need for Minghao to be here at this hour of the night- or morning, it’s just semantics really, and it’s only his first week. He has time. 

“Practicing Korean with a native speaker should be more effective, Minghao” Jihoon offers, and is rewarded with a growing smile from the Chinese boy. God, he’s still young, we’re all too young-

“You can call me Myungho,” he says, eagerly showing his paper, full of uneasy, slanted Korean letters that Jihoon can already recognise as the standard idol greeting.

Hello! My name is Myungho and I’m the cutie dancer of the group-

“Minghao.” Jihoon says firmly, because he’d be damned if he can’t even afford the little effort it is to call Minghao by his real name in a foreign country, for whatever little comfort that it can provide. 

“Minghao,” the boy repeats after him, the name rolling off his tongue fluently, and ducks his head down. 

“Your pronunciation for the ‘d’ sound is too forced, it’s supposed to be sharper and faster,” Jihoon says hurriedly. He regrets coming in here. He doesn’t know what to say, can’t comfort someone when he can barely comfort himself, and he just wanted to tell Minghao to go to bed, he’s not Seungkwan who can brighten up the room with just a cheery exclamation or Seungcheol who just exudes comfort and warmth. He’s just Jihoon, the boy Jeonghan hyung has confessed to being wary of, Jihoon who has wielded a guitar against Mingyu, Jihoon who’s put Soonyoung in a chokehold multiple times and has never told any of his brothers any of the words he grasps tightly in his heart, choked in his throat and eaten away by insecurities. 

“Thank you for helping me, hyung,” Minghao whispers, and perhaps something in his heart slackens. 

180°

They debut, amidst worries and fears of their company. They don't have a lot to go off, they can't last long if they don't have support. Jihoon hides his heavy heart behind his smile, and cheers.

237°

His members rush to give him kisses and hugs on the stage, with thousands of their fans watching, screaming, taking videos to save this memory. Heat rushes through and smoulders at his bones, tasting faintly of embarrassment and disappointment, as he desperately scrabbles to escape his members’ clutches. Fan service, he thinks bitterly, thanking me through outward shows of affection, thanking me for writing songs, thanking me for their debut. 

He hates it. He hates how their talent, Seungkwan and Seokmin’s beautiful voices, Hansol’s raw rapping and Soonyoung’s ability to dance that can move souls, all of this talent that can speak for itself, isn’t enough to gain them the fame they deserve. They have to continuously pander to the public, showing the public what they want instead of what the members want to do by themselves, just because it’s deemed as not good enough and not appealing enough, not well-rounded enough. The compromise grates at him but he makes his peace when he sees the members languishing about together after the concert, idly talking about anything but their stages, and he sends up a silent prayer to the heavens, to whichever God is listening, for bringing them together. For bringing his brothers, his family, to him, through whichever quirk of fate that he doesn’t deserve.

Jeonghan, ever-observant, is watching him carefully, even as he chats quietly with Seokmin, and shoves Seungcheol off the space next to him on the sofa. 

“Jihoon ah,” he calls, voice cutting through the noise of multiple boys in the midst of celebration, “come sit next to your favourite hyung.”

Jihoon abandons his lonely corner immediately, scrambling to his feet and dusting his pants off carefully, and toddles off to the sofa, muscles sore and protesting movement. He vaguely feels like he’s a child again, taking his first wavering steps towards people who love him, but perhaps that’s just him being fanciful. He’s in a melancholic mood tonight, one that most producers would rejoice for, as it’s the state of mind that brings forth the most heartbreaking lyrics and melodies. But he’s not rushing to his studio, and he has no intentions of putting any of these feelings into a song. Some things are meant to be private, and perhaps he’s found something important enough to him to selfishly want to keep to himself. There’s no aching pull of the studio tonight. Sitting next to his Jeonghan hyung, fingers entwined and thighs touching, his head resting on Seungcheol’s shoulders, Jihoon thinks he’s content. 

280°

“Where you should go for a vacation? My house, in Busan,” he jokes almost unthinkingly with a fan, barely keeping his smile up as he realises what he’s let slip. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , he chastises himself, _just because I can’t go, and I can’t see my dad, and I can’t see-_

He misses Busan. He misses the salty, painful tang of the wind, the seagulls that squawk and dive tourists who are naive enough to eat chips while walking on the beach, the warmth that hits him when he opens the door during winter and his mother is in the kitchen, _my dear son, you’ve returned_ , and the pure sense of belonging that wells up in him when he can call _I’m home_ , and know that it is his blood that draws him in, and not bonds forged from sweat and tears and blurred dreams. 

He misses home. Not that Seoul isn’t home, with twelve other boys that he has cast his lot in with and moulded a shaky future from the piano keys sliding under his fingers and the calls of again from Soonyoung and the late, desperate nights of lyric writing that blend together in discussions with Seungcheol and Hansol that leave his eyes gritty and his tongue tinged with fear and hope, both in tandem to create a miasma of bleak that taints his life. Seoul is home, inasmuch as it can be. But it’s- different, it’s a home that is the amalgamation of pressure and success and watching eyes and tears that run together with sweat. It’s not Busan. It can never be Busan.

But those predebut days are over and the fan is waiting, her playful answer disarming him just as the topic of home and Busan and holiday is wont to do, and the words, _oh, my address is-_ hurtle out of his mouth without warning. She splutters, indignant in her righteous fury at his blind trust in his fans and Jihoon gazes at her fondly, because fans are nothing if not predictable, and he has full faith she will keep his confidence, never to breathe a syllable of his address to other fans. He trusts, because it has never been unfounded, and reassures her that relinquishing his address to a fan doesn’t matter, won’t matter. Those who really want to find it already know it, and those who do not will keep their silence. 

And perhaps he has given her a chance that he cannot take for himself, to see his parents and maybe tell them that their son is doing well, that he is living well, eating well, and sleeping well in Seoul, because that is all their fans see and all that he will permit them to see. Even if it isn’t the truth, and that the ugly reality is that his dark eye circles are growing as the months pass, as more success means more responsibility heaped onto his already leaden shoulders, the futures of twelve boys riding more than ever on his ability to create melodies out of nothing but the dreams that live in his head and the words that grow out of his soul.

324°

Jihoon is tired. He writes, never pausing, never stopping. His pen ghosts over whispered fears and unspoken doubts, leaving inky stains of the dreams of thirteen boys in its wake. They need to win on broadcasts. Mansae did well, but they were so far, are still so far from winning, and he doesn’t know if he can do better. His victories feel like flukes and he doesn’t think that he deserves any of the support he’s getting because he can do better, he knows he can, but he can’t. 

He can’t, and it weighs heavy on his chest. Every breath feels like he’s drowning in air and it’s all he can do to drag the feelings out of him and put it into the lyrics mocking him on the computer, lyrics he knows will never see the light of the day. He knows what the public wants to see is not this, is not the struggles and the weight of the composer Jihoon, but the smiles and happiness of the Idol Woozi. 

Because Jihoon will give anything, and everything to see the continued smiles on his member’s faces. Because he wants to be able to shout “Say The Name, Seventeen!”, five, ten, fifteen, even twenty years into the future. He smiles proudly when he declares that Shinhwa-sunbaenim are my idols, they’re celebrating their twentieth anniversary this year, barely withholding the reason being that they still promote as their original group. Because he’s seen bands that have splintered, and he’s seen bands that have lost members along the way, like birds that defecate while flying to get rid of dead weight in order to enable themselves to reach new heights. It reeks of disloyalty, of relationships built based on business contracts and the stench of crisp won bills and the fragility of fame. His members are not dead weight, and he will emerge out of the cesspool of stardom with all of them intact and happy, or he will die trying.

He’s determined not to be like the birds. 

\--

360°

Jihoon looks around, takes in his members, their faces shining with hope, their fans, some of them he recognises even from their days in the practice room. Behind, the managers, the staff, the stylists. Beyond, he knows Bumzu-hyung is watching from their studio. He closes his eyes, and sends his prayer to any God up there, anyone who is willing to listen to him, a boy, just a boy from Busan who dreams of being something more than what he deserves.

“And the winner is…”

Jihoon's eyes cannot- _cannot_ open to look at the score.

“Seventeen!”

(Amongst his members, he allows himself to cry. He can cry now. He is surrounded by his family, his brothers, and they have achieved their first milestone. His members’ smiles shine brighter than the stars that he thinks of when he’s producing, and perhaps, perhaps this is the start.)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this was . okay. OTL


End file.
